


l'art d'apprivoiser les âmes

by marschallin



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Anal Sex, Awkward Boners, Canon Era, Cats, Corsetry, Crossdressing, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Period-Typical Sexism, Sexual Harassment, Undercover Missions, proto-feminism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-09-23 04:17:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17073317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marschallin/pseuds/marschallin
Summary: Enjolras goes undercover as a woman and receives an unexpected political education. Combeferre sees Enjolras in a dress and has some revelations of his own.





	1. Chapter 1

Courfeyrac refused to admit where he met Madame Daladier, perhaps (as Combeferre suspected) to add a layer of mystery to the proceedings. The likeliest explanation was that they had met at a salon, perhaps that of Monsieur Rossini, of whom both were ardent admirers. Still, to hear Bahorel tell it, their intimacy encompassed no less than three murders and two unwanted pregnancies; most thought they were lovers at the very least, a fact that Combeferre could easily dispute and yet chose not to.

It was undeniable, however, that Courfeyrac held Madame Daladier ( _ “chère Laure,” _ as he called her) on the highest of pedestals, and despised her husband ( _ “ _ _ cet imbécile!” _ ) with a ferocity that approached parody. Combeferre learnt long ago that while there were times when Courfeyrac wanted to be prodded and poked, he often preferred a degree of privacy not out of a desire to hide, but so that he could work out his own feelings before opening them up to the opinion of others. Courfeyrac may have enjoyed inciting his friends’ curiosity about his relationship with Madame Daladier, but his reticence was not exaggerated. That was fine. Combeferre didn’t mind waiting; eventually the full story would tumble out, likely more mundane than anything else.

This is to say, when Courfeyrac burst into Enjolras and Combeferre’s flat at midnight, dripping wet and heaving, the last thing anybody expected him to say was “Laure has agreed to help us!”

“You are dripping on my rug,” said Combeferre cheerfully, still mostly engrossed in his anatomy notes.

“What do you mean?” asked Enjolras, who in a crisis was often the sharper of the two. The situation was not yet a crisis, but Enjolras still looked rather like he was preparing for battle, albeit in a brocade dressing gown and holding a saucer of coffee.

It took Courfeyrac some time to catch his breath and remove his wet things. Combeferre, rising to the occasion, furnished him with his own coffee and draped a crocheted blanket over his shoulders.

“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras repeated. “What do you mean?”

“Laure shares our beliefs and wishes to help us. Please Enjolras, do not look at me like that. If you trust me, you may trust Laure.” Courfeyrac glowered over his saucer, while Enjolras attempted to form his face into a milder expression.

“Or, alternatively,” Combeferre said. “Laure is having you on and intends to turn us all in to Monsieur Gisquet, who I might remind you, is good friends with Monsieur Daladier.” He did not mean to be cruel, and Courfeyrac, bless him, did not take it with any offence. He just sipped at his coffee and looked grave.

“She would rather die. Not after his duel last month. Believe me, Denis, she has no love for her husband.”

“Or she hopes that by rooting us out, she will earn her husband’s good graces,” Combeferre said, though his voice lacked conviction. He felt as if he were trying to solve a particularly convoluted algebra problem while missing half the relevant numbers.

“She hates him,” Courfeyrac offered in response.

Enjolras nodded, and reached forward to adjust where the blanket had fallen off one of Courfeyrac’s shoulders. “I trust your judgement, though I ask that you remain circumspect in revealing the specifics of our membership and activities.”

“Of course. I would never put our cause in the slightest danger,” said Courfeyrac, glancing at Combeferre with eyes so green that, after all this time, they still made him feel slightly dizzy, as if the earth’s gravitational pull rearranged itself. He inhaled, hard, and tried to think of other things.

“I trust you,” he said. Courfeyrac glanced at the fire, and the world righted itself.

“Thank you,” Courfeyrac murmured. “I understand your reticence, but I have known Laure since we were children and have no doubt that she is sincere. She tells me that the  _ gendarmerie _ are planning a large-scale raid next week, that it will target the stoneworkers in Creuse. There is a list of those to be arrested in her husband’s office. If we can get the list, we will have advance warning.”

There was no bravado in his voice, no surplus theatrics. He seemed contemplative, almost melancholy. Combeferre wished, as he only rarely did, that Enjolras was not present.

“Can Madame Daladier make a copy?” Enjolras asked.

“She would, but she fears for her life. There have been serious altercations in the past when she trespassed in her husband’s private quarters.” There was a pregnant pause before Courfeyrac, with a slight smirk, continued. “Do not fear, we have concocted a plan. Besides Monsieur Daladier,  _ cet casse couille _ , and his barbaric associates, the only other people allowed in his study are the staff. Lucky for us, one of the maids has left to get married.”

“So we find a woman willing to spend a few days working for the Daladiers, and then…?” Combeferre let himself trail off, eager to hear Courfeyrac explain the rest.

“She makes a copy of the list, then finds some excuse to quit. No one will be the wiser. Laure cannot ask any of the current staff as they are essentially her husband’s spies, so it will have to be one of us.”

“I do not know any woman up to such a task,” Enjolras mused. “Combeferre? Perhaps your sister has a friend?”

“My sister’s friends are wrapped in twenty layers of silk and surrounded by no fewer than five chaperones at any given moment. I don’t see how you expect to secret one away for a seditious adventure,” Combeferre said, crossing his arms. “Don’t you know any revolutionary-minded grisettes?”

“Not in some time,” Courfeyrac said, with a slight twitch of his upper lip. “Perhaps Joly’s girl?”

“She’s in Auvers for the next fortnight looking after her father,” Enjolras contributed. They stared at him, and he shrugged. “I  _ do _ listen when you all talk.”

“Bahorel and  Bérénice aren’t speaking,” Courfeyrac said, ticking them off on his fingers. “Prouvaire was seeing that funny little Irish girl, but I think she threw him over for Berlioz. Feuilly’s Violette might work, except she works longer hours than he does. We cannot sacrifice her employment. Who else is there? Lesgles is alone, as usual.”

After some time spent quietly contemplating the women in their extended social sphere, and later, every woman they had ever met, Enjolras stood up and clapped Courfeyrac on the back. “It’s a marvelous plan. We will sleep on it, and the perfect actress will present herself to us.”

“We will think of something,” Courfeyrac said, slightly pleading. “I promise you, we will get ahold of that list.”

Enjolras nodded. The firelight flattened his features, giving him the look of a stained glass window. It was captivating. “I have an early lecture, so I am off to bed. You two ought to be in bed yourselves.”

Courfeyrac glanced at Combeferre, who glanced at Enjolras.

“Yes,” said Combeferre absently. “Yes, I suppose we ought to be. Goodnight,  _ mon ami _ .” He inclined his head back for Enjolras to playfully ruffle his hair, slightly longer than it ought to be. He made a mental note to find time to visit the barber. He ought to bring Enjolras along; they were both beginning to look positively bohemian.

“Goodnight,” said Courfeyrac. 

And then they were alone.

* * *

 

That night, curled up into coinciding shapes, as if their bodies were the delicate wheels and cogs of a pocket watch, Courfeyrac began to explain.

“Laure was supposed to be my wife,” he said, voice slightly muffled by Combeferre’s chest. Combeferre tried not to show his surprise, and a new feeling, unfamiliar and slimy, curled in the pit of his stomach like a  large snake.

“Oh?” he responded, willing his heart to beat slower.

“Our parents decreed it ages and ages ago, when we were hardly more than infants. She came of age some years before I did and,  _ well. _ She met her now-husband. She fell in love. I did not fault her for it, though I do wish she had chosen someone else. But that is for her sake, not mine.”

The slimy feeling shifted slightly, as if the snake had stretched itself out to fill the entirety of his belly. Jealousy. It was jealousy. 

“You feel responsible for her,” Combeferre said. 

“Yes. I encouraged her. I did not want to marry her, though perhaps our lives would be… I should not dwell on the past. I  _ am _ fond of Laure, and her children. She says that she feels like a porcelain doll. She feels useless. Helping us may give her a sense of pride, of accomplishment,  _ something.  _ I owe her that at least.” Courfeyrac lifted his head slightly and pushed his kiss-swollen lips against Combeferre’s jawline. 

“Do not look so betrayed,  _ mon cher _ . I can be deeply fond of a woman and not want to do this to them.” He pushed one hand down Combeferre’s chest, his stomach, the thick hair between his legs. Combeferre squirmed pleasantly.

“Was I so obvious?” he asked, laughing and half-moaning at once.

“Only to me. Only ever to me…”

 

* * *

 

Three days were spent in a frenzy of conversation. Women were put forward, only to be rejected for practical reasons (about to have a baby, unable to slip away for a few days, would be recognized, didn’t want to) or because there was reason to believe her untrustworthy. A rattling sense of desperation had begun to set it, like being chased by wild dogs. Combeferre had never been chased by wild dogs, but he assumed it felt a bit like this.

“I can see if Charlotte will deign to speak with me,” Courfeyrac muttered at the ceiling. He was lying on his back on Jean Prouvaire’s settee, spooning raspberries into his mouth and dripping the juice all over his chin. 

“Charlotte is not trustworthy,” Combeferre said firmly. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor and eating raspberries with his fingers, like a civilized person.

“Charlotte won’t speak to you for good reason,” Prouvaire said, slightly moralizing. He was sober and as such, in a rather monastic frame of mind. 

“I don’t suppose they need a footman,” said Enjolras. He was the only one of the assembled party sitting in a chair, and was very carefully darning a hole in his black stockings. 

“Laure was very clear, they need a maid, ergo a woman, ergo…” Courfeyrac paused. He sat up very straight and handed his bowl of raspberries to Combeferre, who stole a handful.

“Courfeyrac has discovered that maids are women, God help us all,” Prouvaire laughed. Courfeyrac held up a finger to silence him.

“Correction: a maid must appear to be a woman.” 

Collectively, they all turned to Enjolras, who stabbed the needle with unnecessary aggression. 

“No,” he said.

“Yes,” said Prouvaire. “My friend,  Madame Desbordes-Valmore, knows all about costumes and face powder! It will be a simple matter to dress you up.”

“Your hair is quite long,” Combeferre mused.

“So is yours,” said Enjolras. 

“Not as long,” Courfeyrac countered. “And poor Combeferre’s shoulders would burst out of any gown, and he would be required to shave three times a day to hide his beard. No, it would not work. And I cannot, because I would be recognized in a minute.”

Prouvaire pointed at his own prominent Adam’s apple. “My voice would betray me. I’m envious though, it sounds like  _ such  _ fun.”

“I know nothing of women,” Enjolras muttered into his stocking. “I should not be able to act the part.”

“And we shall teach you!” cried Prouvaire with enough enthusiasm to topple the pile of pillows he had previously been lounging on.

“It’s the only way,” Combeferre said. He felt Enjolras’s cool glare on him and blushed instinctively. He felt as if he were doing something very dirty and shameful, though he hadn’t the slightest idea why. Were his own physiology not so masculine, he would happily don stays and petticoats, and feel no shame in doing so; There were, he knew, men who took sexual satisfaction in the wearing of women’s clothing. There were even men preferred to live as women, who found comfort in being called  _ elles  _ instead of  _ ils.  _

And then there was Enjolras. Something about Enjolras, about the cut of his jaw and the softness of his hands, made the whole enterprise feel sordid. 

“If I must,” said Enjolras. 

Prouvaire clasped his hands together in glee, and Courfeyrac began to talk loudly of which colors and cuts would be most flattering to Enjolras’s coloring. Combeferre felt slightly queasy. He tried to smile.

That night, nose tickling Courfeyrac’s collarbone, he thought of Enjolras in a white gown, in the style of their childhoods, the bodice gaping open, nipples dark through the gauze-like fabric. When Courfeyrac noticed his arousal, they fucked quietly and dispassionately,

 

* * *

 

“You’ll need references. Nobody hires staff off the streets.” Violette held up a pile of linens as if a cannonball and threw it at Enjolras’s head. A stained chemise unfolded in his lap.

“My sister has already written a letter testifying to Marianne’s diligence as an employee,” Combeferre said. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, trying to look detached. “We thought of using her things, but they would look out of place for a maid.” He did not say “my sister dresses far too well to pass as a working girl” but Violette, having understood his meaning without being told explicitly, looked murderous as she untangled a pair of black stockings.

“ _ Well _ . Then I suppose you just need the clothes and someone to teach you how to curtsy. Which I will not do. You’re lucky I’m giving you a half hour of my evening, nevermind my old things.”

“Your sacrifice is noted, citizeness,” said Enjolras. In anyone else’s mouth, it would have sounded sarcastic, mocking, but Enjolras imbued his voice with such conviction that even Violette seemed to soften. 

“Yes, well, I can’t have you running off without a proper wardrobe. If you are caught, you will be shot, and it would make André very unhappy.” She held up a long black gown. “You will need to make alterations to account for your lack of figure.”

Enjolras looked a little green, but smiled radiantly. “Thank you, citizeness. Do you think I should wear my usual shoes?” 

This prompted such a cacophony of laughter that a neighbor knocked on the door to complain about the noise, at which point Violette threw them out into the night. Feuilly, half-asleep over a volume of Ovid and a dictionary, waved them off. 

 

* * *

 

“I can’t fix this,” said Marthe. She was frowning over the black gown, holding up a magnifying glass to examine the stitching. “This is far too large for you, Michel, and I’m no seamstress.”

“You’re not?” asked Enjolras. 

She drew herself up to her full height and gave him the same disdainful look that she’d given when, as children, he’d helped Combeferre steal the little mince pies she served at doll tea parties. She was now taller than her brother and most of his friends, but had the same sullen turn of her lip as an overgrown toddler.

“I have never sewn anything more complicated than a reticule,” she said. “Why on earth should I?”

Enjolras opened his mouth to respond that it was his (apparently mistaken) assumption that young ladies were taught such things in school, or by expensive English nannies named Elsie. He thought better of it and instead tried to look penitent. Marthe, who had a decade’s worth of experience in such looks, brandished her magnifying glass at him. 

“Do you think we come out of womb knowing how to cook and clean and mend your shirts? I do not assume that you were born being able to recite Condorcet, who I shall remind you, said that  the differences between men and women are simply the result of education . I do not diminish your accomplishments by assuming they are inborn and dependent only on your good fortune to be born a man and receive such education.” Marthe and her brother shared the same thick, arched eyebrows, the same low cheekbones, the same petulant mouth and small grey eyes. For a moment the resemblance was overwhelming and Enjolras fought the urge to laugh, imagining it was Combeferre glowering at him in a dress and shawl. Then, remembering the point of their meeting and the upcoming mission, he fell silent. 

Flashes of temper accompanied by gentleness were another family trait. Marthe smoothed out the dark fabric, sighed, and bit her bottom lip.

“I will give you the address of my dressmaker and a series of measurements for you to take at your leisure. Bring her your measurements, and the clothes. Ask her to adjust them to your specifications. Pretend it’s for a mistress; she will be discrete. She will know that it is for a man, but you wouldn’t be the first.” 

“Thank you,” said Enjolras, feeling winded.

“And you’ve forgotten a bonnet, but I know a cheap milliner. Remember, straw is out of fashion. No grisette would be caught dead wearing a straw hat. Do you have a pencil? Oh and before I forget, Maman sends her love.”

 

* * *

 

Enjolras, who could fit most of his worldly goods in one battered carpetbag, was continually nonplussed at the sheer volume of things that needed to be purchased for a woman, even an imaginary and poor one. There were hatboxes perched on his bookshelves, hair ribbons and hatpins always underfoot, and his wardrobe was close to bursting with petticoats. Worse were his lessons with Marthe and (called back from Auvers by increasingly panicked letters) Musichetta. They took turns berating his manner of speaking, of walking, of carrying books from one room to another, and while he had expected to have some difficulty adjusting to his new presentation, this was like studying for the worst and most complicated exam. The answers changed depending on the slightest change in circumstance, and no matter what he did, it seemed to be wrong. 

He was, he reflected ruefully, a very bad woman in every manner but appearance. Even Courfeyrac, mustache and all, would have made a better go of it. Courfeyrac relished roleplaying and would have thrown himself into the part with verve. Courfeyrac, who knew all about clothing and understood social niceties. Courfeyrac, holding up a corset to his chest and frowning at it.

“I must say, I’ve never tried to get one of these  _ on _ a girl before,” he mused. “This will be an experiment.”

Enjolras, struggling to tie up his hair, glowered. “Where is Musichetta? I thought she was coming. Combeferre, where’s Marthe? Can’t she help?”

“Marthe has a lecture on orchid breeding that she refuses to miss. Musichetta will be here as soon as her shift is up.” Combeferre looked pale from his spot on the bed, sorting through pocket handkerchiefs and old gloves. “Come now, chemise first. Even I know that.”

“Did we ever manage to get the blood out? God knows what Violette had been doing in it,” Courfeyrac said. 

Combeferre raised an eyebrow. “These things happen,” he said mysteriously. Courfeyrac, comprehension dawning, suddenly chortled. Enjolras frowned and, deciding it was probably an inside joke between lovers, ignored them and began to strip. Combeferre tossed him the chemise, still spotted with brown along the back. 

“Stockings?” asked Courfeyrac as he tried to stifle his giggles in his sleeve. Combeferre, grinning without mirth, made a show of picking them out of the pile. There was something slightly manic in his movement, and Enjolras made a note to try and get his friend alone, to soothe his fears. Sometimes it was as if Combeferre’s spectacles illuminated and magnified only the potential for disaster, crowding out any possibility of success. 

“No,” said Combeferre, voice tight as if on the verge of crying out. “The corset is next.”

The ensuing silence felt almost reverential. Courfeyrac held up the garment like it was the Shroud of Turin, bearing some incredible truth within the curves of fabric and bone.

“As I said, it will be an experiment.”

Enjolras raised his arms. Courfeyrac looked hesitantly at Combeferre, who nodded tersely. 

The corset felt heavy against his chest but not particularly uncomfortable. He shifted slightly, earning a pinch from Courfeyrac, fiddling with the laces and making frustrated noises. There was a sharp pull, and Enjolras started in spite of himself. Where before it seemed as if he were only wearing a canvas vest, now he felt as if someone were trying to push his guts up inside his ribcage. 

“My apologies. Combeferre dear, does this look right to you?” 

“Mmm,” came the reply from the bed. 

Another pull, and Enjolras felt momentarily lightheaded. He could feel the boning press into his flesh and realized, with a shudder, that there was no discernable movement when he inhaled and exhaled, that his abdomen remained rigid throughout. It was an unnatural feeling. 

Another pull, this one gentler. He put a hand on his belly and, where previously it had been flat, the flesh was now concave. He took shallow breaths. 

“Combeferre, where are his busts?” Courfyrac frowned down the gaping bosom of the corset, surveying Enjolras’s flat chest. “If anyone tries to fondle him, we’re done for.”

“They won’t,” muttered Enjolras, as Combeferre handed Courfeyrac two oblong sacks of rice, each one small enough to fit in his hand. 

“They might,” said Combeferre. “If it becomes intolerable, do not feel obligated to endure it. This list is not worth your chastity.” 

Courfeyrac, rearranging the homemade breasts with a craftsman’s eye, blushed. “Don’t frighten him. Laure would never permit her staff to…  _ Well. _ There’s no use fretting about it, anyway.” 

“And you know all about how Madame Daladier runs her household?” asked Combeferre peevishly. Enjolras wanted to turn and face him, to read his face and know, perhaps, the source of this outburst, but felt that if he moved too quickly he would surely faint. The world had begun to go grey at the edges. He tried to slouch and found that he could not, the corset would not let him. 

“I don’t know what you’re implying, my dear, but take your foul mood elsewhere. Enjolras is perfect capable of defending himself from harassment. Oh, steady on—” Courfeyrac grabbed Enjolras’s shoulders and Enjolras realized, with a vague sense of surprise, that he had been sinking to the ground. In a moment Combeferre was on him, holding his wrist in one hand and a pocket watch in the other. 

“Loosen his laces, you’re going to suffocate him,” Combeferre muttered, and Enjolras relaxed as much as the corset allowed. Combeferre would not sound so grumpy if there were any actual danger. 

“I am  _ trying _ to give him give him hips,” Courfeyrac grumbled under his breath but still, mercifully, followed Combeferre’s orders. All the blood rushed back into his abdomen at once and this time, his vision really did blacken for a moment. Still, he did not faint. He swallowed, dizzy, and held onto Combeferre’s forearm for support.

“I think this corset is defective,” Enjolras choked out as soon as he felt strong enough to speak. “Nobody can be expected to bear such discomfort on a daily basis.”

Combeferre gave him a significant look, the sort of look he was prone to give when he wanted acknowledgement that he had won an argument but did not want to be the one to say so. Not being aware of any longstanding disagreement over women’s undergarments, Enjolras ignored him.

Combeferre adopted a paternal tone. “The corset is fine, Enjolras, it’s just meant for one with… more lady-like curves than you happen to possess. Women also train themselves to survive with decreased lung capacity from their adolescence.” Ah, so it was an argument over women’s suffrage. Most of the time, Combeferre’s clearsightness, his ability to see the world through his philosophy as if through a telescope, was one of his most endearing qualities. Now, still struggling to breathe deeply, Enjolras rather wished to keep the conversation on the material plane. He did not want to think of women and their lung capacity when his own was so diminished. This was, he knew, selfish and deserved the rebuke Combeferre would surely give him. And yet, his new garments made him feel strangely vulnerable; he did not want to fight or argue politics. He wanted to lie down in a dark room. 

“We’ll come back to your corset later,” said Courfeyrac, with that infectious giddiness that belied a social awkwardness, a desperate desire to alter the conversation. He was looking, not at Enjolras, but at Combeferre, who was almost pouting. “You must rest,” Courfeyrac continued. “I will work on your hair.”

 

* * *

 

A hour later, Enjolras’s scalp still ached from where Courfeyrac’s curling iron singed it. The corset, while less painful than before, was still uncomfortable enough to annoy him, and his gown had begun to smell of sweat after only a few minutes of use. Still, he could hardly recognize himself in his shaving mirror, so at the very least he had not been injured in vain. 

“You look like an angel,” said Musichetta, who had arrived somewhere between the corset-cover and petticoats. 

“I could almost fall in love with him,” said Marthe, giving her brother cause to splutter. She had come straight from her lecture, carrying an orchid pot and sketchbook. The orchid recovered from the journey on his windowsill, the sketchbook was being reviewed by Combeferre, who appeared engrossed in critiquing Marthe’s Latin spelling. He seemed loathe to look Enjolras in the eye, instead keeping his focus on the pencil sketches, poorly rendered, of stamens and pistols and pollen-bearing honeybees. 

“A touch of rouge?” Courfeyrac hovered anxiously. He looked a bit like Grantaire, waiting to hear back from the Salon. Only Courfeyrac did not reek of liquor and had so far not descended into vulgarity.

“Maman would never hire a maid who wore rouge,” Marthe said. 

Combeferre rolled his eyes. “Madame Daladier isn’t the one hiring him, it’s the housekeeper, Madame Babineaux.”

“Yes, but housekeepers are even less tolerant of cosmetics than bourgeois ladies,” Musichetta quipped. “Rouge would spoil him. The effect is perfect without.”

“Yes,” said Marthe. “Oh yes, he looks a dream. Brother, stop fussing over  _ Cattleya sanguiloba _ and look at Michel. Doesn’t he look like a dream?”

“Hmf,” said Combeferre, shifting the sketchbook slightly on his lap.Then, clearly annoyed at the expectation that he respond in any meaningful way, sighed and glanced at Enjolras. His gaze was cruel. “Enjolras, you look like a passable woman.”

_ Oh,  _ thought Enjolras.  _ He is ashamed of me, of how I have debased myself.  _ It was as if a piece of machinery, after much fiddling, slid into its correct place. Of course. Combeferre saw the corset, the petticoats, the potential rouge, and all he saw were a set of manacles that Enjolras, in his ignorance, wore gladly. Usually Combeferre was more practical and would have, Enjolras assumed, understood that necessity required sacrifices, both moral and personal. He would have considered the lives of those to be arrested to have a greater weight. And yet, this time he apparently did not.

This might have been communicated and resolved earlier, if only Combeferre would look him in the eye.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

“You’ve been pacing for an hour.”

This was an understatement. It had been several hours; occasionally broken by Combeferre standing in front of the window and staring at the street as if it held some secret reassurance. He did not speak his worries to Courfeyrac, who had been trying to channel his own anxiety into his school-work until Combeferre’s pacing made concentration impossible.

“He should have sent word.” Combeferre ran his hands through his hair so that it stood on end. “Something has gone wrong.”

Courfeyrac silently gave up on his essay and crossed the room to take Combeferre into his arms. Combeferre relaxed slightly, but his heart beat erratically against Courfeyrac’s own.

“Enjolras will send word when he can. It is likely that he hasn’t had a moment alone yet. Patience. You cannot help him by worrying,” Courfeyrac murmured into Combeferre’s neck. He felt him shiver slightly at the meeting of lips and skin. Encouraged, Courfeyrac pressed his teeth into the softness of his earlobe. A hint of a moan, restrained and desperate.

“Now is not the time. Please.”

And yet he didn’t push Courfeyrac away, didn’t move palm from the small of Courfeyrac’s back. Sometimes Combeferre needed pushing, like a reluctant ingénue who, fearing a lack of affection, needed courting and wild declarations before surrendering. Combeferre liked to feel desired; he liked to feel as if he were very generous for meeting Courfeyrac’s entreaties. Combeferre liked to be fondled in the presence of others, to have his cock sucked in the sweaty early morning, to be pinched and slapped in the heat of arousal. Courfeyrac knew Combeferre’s preferences as if they were his own. Combeferre liked a stiff cock in his ass, and Courfeyrac liked the way Combeferre looked when he was delirious with pleasure. They made a good pair.

“My dear,” Courfeyrac said. “My dear, dear man, come to bed. You will feel better.”

A stiffening against Courfeyrac’s belly, an even rapider heartbeat. Like a bird. Suddenly filled with affection, he brought his hands up and cupped Combeferre’s sweet, aggravated face.

“He will have need of us,” said Combeferre, almost childish in his petulance.

“And we will be there when that time comes,” said Courfeyrac innocently. He leaned forward and kissed Combeferre’s tensed brow. “Dearest, _please_. I will begin to feel jealous if you continue to pine so.”

It was meant in jest but Combeferre immediately tore himself free of Courfeyrac’s grip, cock visibly softening through his trousers. His neck had become very red.

“That is ridiculous. You are ridiculous,” Combeferre spluttered.

“Well yes,” said Courfeyrac, bashful. “It was meant to be ridiculous. It was a joke, and a poor one, I grant you. I did not mean to offend.”

“I am not offended,” said Combeferre. His skin was returning to its usual hue; it was a hopeful sign. “I am merely astonished that you could behave so foolishly when Enjolras is in such danger.”

“I do not think—”

“You never think!”

There was silence. Combeferre, heaving like an enraged bull, slowly calmed. Courfeyrac found himself, to his surprise, blinking back tears. In his infinite knowledge of Combeferre’s moods, he understood without quite understanding. He felt it in his chest before he could form it into words. _Combeferre loves Enjolras as he does not love you._ Perhaps he had known it for years and yet not understood quite how it related to himself. Perhaps he thought that love borne of friendship would be quickly overpowered by more physical affections. It was irrelevant. There was no denying it now, not with Combeferre looking like a kicked dog and Enjolras out in a dress.

He had never been the less loved, and he felt the ache of it inside him.

“I am truly sorry,” he said.

“You are crying,” said Combeferre. He looked surprised, then low-lipped and shameful.

“I suppose I am,” Courfeyrac said. “Think nothing of it.”

In two strides, Combeferre closed the gap between them and took Courfeyrac by the shoulders. “I was cruel. It was uncalled for. Please forgive me,” he said, own voice thick.

They kissed, heavy and throaty and full of a sour taste. When they broke apart, Courfeyrac shuddered and let himself lean against Combeferre’s grip. He would explain eventually, and perhaps they would part as friends. He had not understood the depths of his own devotion until it appeared unreciprocated; it appeared his love was unending and threatened to spill out all over Combeferre’s shirt.

“You do think Madame Daladier would send word if something were to—”

Courfeyrac silenced Combeferre with another kiss.

 

* * *

 

The interview was short and to the point. Enjolras did not know if this was usual when hiring domestic help, or if Marguerite Guerry was an unusually attractive hire.

Like Enjolras, Marguerite was born in Issoire and had spent time in Grenoble. Both were orphans who were raised by distant and cold-hearted relations. Both had younger brothers who died in infancy. Both were, to Enjolras’s dismay, charming and well-liked. Madame Babineaux, the housekeeper, seemed hardly able to contain her joy as she read over Marthe’s recommendation. The familiar stationary comforted him, even in Madame Babineaux’s wrinkled old hands.

He (she?) was to receive 300 francs a month, on the first of the month. He was to awaken before sunrise to begin dusting while the family slept. Though he had no training in such things, he was to assist Madame Daladier’s personal maid, Madame Anne-Justine Gruelle. He was to wear a uniform, the price of which would be subtracted from his first month’s earnings. He would answer when called, do what he was bidden, speak only when spoken to.

It was with no small amount of fear that he learnt that he was to share a bedroom.

In retrospect, it was obvious. Of course servants were not given rooms of their own. And yet, he had not considered having to sleep and wash and change with another person only a few feet away. Besides the obvious risks of such an arrangement, he had not shared a room since the lycée and had not enjoyed it then, even with Combeferre only two beds down. Now it felt as if he were to be thrown to be wolves.

Nearly tripping over his skirts, he followed Madame Babineaux through the winding halls of the Daladier household, trying to remember which door led to the green parlour and which led to the billiards room and which to the pink parlour. Monsieur Daladier’s study, he noted, was between the billiards room and the library.

Upstairs were bedrooms upon bedrooms and, up another flight of stairs, more of the same. The wallpaper was peeling and faded, and the floorboards began to creak, but otherwise it was not so different. Madame Babineaux paused in front of one door out of dozens.

“You will stay with Catherine. She is a good girl, and has been here for nearly a year. She will show you your duties, though I trust you will not rely on her guidance for long.”

“Thank you, Madame,” Enjoras said, careful to keep his voice steady and his tongue flat on the roof of his mouth, like Musichetta taught him.

“Catherine is attending to the nursery luncheon. I will have her assist you,” Madame Babineaux said, opening the door and frowning at the interior. Of the two metal-framed beds inside, one was neatly made; the other was a tangle of rumpled bedclothes. “I must speak to Catherine about this. My apologies. Please, forgive the mess.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Madame,” Enjolras said, taking care to step over the pillow, which lay between the beds. He assumed his was the cleaner one, and gingerly set down his carpetbag.

“Make yourself at home. Catherine will join you presently.”

And with that, Madame Babineaux shut the door and Enjolras let himself panic. The mess was not severe; he had seen worse in Combeferre’s rooms before exams, and yet he couldn’t help but imagine the most sordid of explanations for Catherine leaving her things in such a state. Was she a madwoman? Perhaps that would be a blessing. Perhaps if she was a madwoman, no one would believe her testimony if she were to discover his secret.

The panic came in waves that churned and spun his stomach, compressed as it was. He checked his reflection in a hand mirror and found he looked just as female as he had upon setting out. He put his things in the top drawer of the one wobbly dresser and then, thinking it might be viewed as impudent, repacked them in his carpetbag. Then, somewhat calmer, he put them back. He couldn’t remember the last time he had doubted his own judgement so.

By the time Catherine arrived, he had worked himself up into a state of minor hysteria. Her appearance did not help.

“Goodness!” she said, bursting into the room and laughing. “You _are_ a pretty thing.”

She was unusually short, with lots of frizzy brown hair and a pink, moon-shaped face. Enjolras, blushing, held out his hand for her to shake and then thought better of it and, blushing harder, clasped his hands in his lap. Catherine only laughed harder.

“Don’t look so shy! I won’t bite, though I have been bitten today— Auguste is a little monster, I’ll tell you that. If you’re lucky you’ll never have to see him, or his witch of a sister. Did Madame Babineaux get you set up? I’m Catherine, as you have probably guessed. Catherine Dupont. You’re Marguerite. We will share a room and be good friends, I hope. Won’t you take your bonnet off and sit down? We have a few minutes to get to know one another before getting to work.” She had an airy, bird-like manner of speaking that both annoyed Enjolras and put him at ease. She beckoned to his bed, and he sat down, feeling awkward. She began setting her own bed right.

“I apologize for the mess, but… Well you’ll find out sooner or later, but you mustn’t tell anyone. It’s only that Madame Caron, the cook, well her cat had kittens and she was going to drown them but Louise is so soft-hearted— Louise is the scullery maid; you’ll meet her soon and love her to bits, you won’t be able to help yourself. Anyway, Louise stole one of the kittens except it’s a great secret; she’ll be sacked if anyone finds out. It got out this morning and hid under my bed, poor thing. Do you like cats?”

“Very much,” he said. He had a vague recollection of, as a child, playing with the enormous orange tabby that lurked around his grandmother’s boudoir. He tried to remember any specific details to bring to the conversation but found that his agreement was all Catherine required.

“I knew we’d be friends,” she said, clasping her hands together. “Mind you, I’m not so fond of cats to risk my job for them, but I like them very much as well. Now, what else? Oh, I see you’ve unpacked, good girl. Make sure to keep your fingernails trimmed— Madame Babineaux is wild about fingernails. And don’t let Guillaume bully you— he’s head footman, and a total bore. Everyone else is very nice, of course. The parlour maids are you, me, Angelique, Victorine, and Jeanne. Jeanne is a bit of a prude but she’s kind in her way. Then there’s Louise, and Clara, and Anne-Justine. Camille is the nanny; she’s nice but we never see her, thank God. She’s ill today, which is why I ended up with the heathens. I can’t stand children, can you?”

Enjolras blinked. “I haven’t given it much thought.”

“You are a funny little thing, aren’t you?” Catherine cocked her head to the side. “You look like one of Mademoiselle Olympe’s China dolls. She’s Auguste’s sister; it’s Auguste, who’s five, and Olympe, who’s three. You won’t see them much, I hope. Or much of the family in general, if you’re lucky.”

His confusion must have shown on his face, because immediately Catherine blushed and began fretting over her bedspread.

“It’s just, well, I wish someone told me when I was new. Monsieur Daladier is a good man; he gives us all a bonus every New Year. He’s just rather— I mean, I don’t think his marriage has been a success in all the ways that one might wish, and I suppose he gets lonely like everyone else.”

“He molests you?” Enjolras cried, disgust and fear heavy in his chest. Catherine looked pained.

“That is such an ugly word, my dear Marguerite. No, please. It is not nearly so grim as all that.” She paused and, finally nothing else to do with her hands, sat down across from Enjolras and sighed deeply. “There is only danger if you are stupid enough to believe what he tells you.”

The suddenness of her silence told Enjolras all he could have wished to know.

 

* * *

 

Combeferre rarely ventured to the Faubourg Saint-Germain and had a vague sense that he should dress up for the occasion. His best waistcoat was just too tight and his boots, newly polished, squeaked a little as he walked down the Rue de Varennes, towards the Daladier residence. He felt awkward and, under the punishing midday sun, slightly moist with sweat.

The Daladiers had one of the smaller and uglier houses, a fact which cheered Combeferre considerably. They were not, afterall, titled. The curtains were, unfortunately, drawn tight, and the footman standing in front of the door looked like he could break Combeferre’s nose without exertion, but there was something very ordinary about the house that was comforting. It was large, yes, and imposing, but had he not walked passed the Hôtel de Carnavalet, larger and more imposing by far? Could Monsieur Daladier really be so dangerous when he inhabited a structure made of stone and brick, unremarkable in a sea of remarkable buildings? Though snobbery was not in his essential character, Combeferre found himself reflecting that his childhood home, though modest, was much more tasteful than this monstrosity, barely a hundred years old and already out of style.

Lost in thought, he hardly noticed the front door open. Two women walked out; one wore black and had a severe, sallow look. The other, clearly Madame Laure, was drenched in lace and was laughing without showing her teeth. She was very pretty, and moved in a lithe, catlike way that reminded Combeferre of Courfeyrac. They would have made an attractive couple.

The two women set off down the street, arm-in-arm, with a footman following behind, holding a basket. As they passed, Combeferre turned his face away, but caught Madame Daladier looking at him. Her eyes were very dark, and her mouth opened slightly, as if to address him, before she was led away, down the street.

Had she recognized him? Impossible, he had never set eyes on her before and his appearance was not so unusual that, like Prouvaire, strangers could pick him out in the street by his manner of dress and habit. Perhaps she noticed that his waistcoat was ill-fitting, that he was out of place and uncomfortable and staring fixedly at her home.

Miserable, Combeferre put his hands in his pockets and began his walk back to the Latin Quarter.

 

* * *

 

After scrubbing the ballroom floors and polishing the silver and sorting through dirty linens and eating an over-salted stew that turned his stomach, Enjolras wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed. Thankfully Catherine left to see the kitten, leaving him alone to undress and set aside his rice-bag bosoms. There was a little mirror hanging above the washstand and, as he combed his hair, he considered his reflection. Even without breasts and a corset, even in a light nightdress and robe, he looked more woman than man. Had his cheeks always been so full and his nose so delicate? Or had he begun to warp under the tyranny of lace and linen, like one of Combeferre’s monographs on the development of a giraffe’s neck, forced to stretch higher and higher to survive? Thinking of Combeferre made him shiver despite the suffocating attic heat.

“Admiring yourself, hm? Come and see Noirot.” Enjolras startled as Catherine bustled in, followed by a slight, mousy girl he recognized from supper. She held a bundle of linens that seemed to be mewling softly.

“What does it eat?” Enjolras asked as Louise unfolded the bundle, revealing a small lump of black fur,  green-eyed and pink-nosed. It glanced around the room disdainfully and nestled closer to Louise’s chest.

“Just cream,” Catherine said cheerfully. “And when, eventually, they catch you nicking it, we’ll all be sacked. All for a little runt like Noirot.” She sat cross-legged on her bed and began working her hair into two neat braids.

“Victorine said that when he’s bigger, he can go live with her sister. That won’t be too long, will it?” Louise looked anxiously down at Noirot, who meowed plaintively.

Enjolras extended a finger for Noirot to sniff and, finding it satisfactory, lick. He laughed at the sensation. “He will be a good strong mouser. Such skills are in demand in a city like Paris; there will be no shortage of homes open to him."

“He likes you,” Louise said, slightly awed. “The poor little dear spends all day locked alone, without his brothers and sisters.”

“He seems contented.” Enjolras dangled his finger for Noirot to paw at and thought of Combeferre, only three days earlier, complaining that he kept finding rat droppings in his cupboards. “Do not distress yourself over the rest of the litter. In Rome they would leave unwanted infants to die outside the city walls. What the cook did is not so different.”

Catherine gave a horrified wail. “That’s barbaric! Maman always said that Italians were vulgar. Ugh.”

“It’s not so different from foundling homes, I ‘pose,” Louise said thoughtfully. Catherine dropped her place in her braid and, hair tumbling out, rushed over to grab Louise around the waist. Noirot squeaked in indignation.

“It’s entirely different, you fool. You weren’t left on the street, you were given to people who could care for you,” Catherine mumbled into Louise’s back. “You perfect, perfect fool.”

They disentangled themselves and Catherine gave Enjolras a dirty look as she began rebraiding her hair. He pretended to pick at a loose thread on the bedspread. He knew he had erred, though he wasn’t quite sure where. How was he supposed to know the intimate history of every individual servant?

“Let’s talk of something more cheerful,” Catherine said finally. “I have a letter from Julie, _your_ predecessor Marguerite.” She rifled through the bedside table and pulled out a battered envelope. “She says that married life is a great deal better than expected, and Robert finally gathered enough money for a midwife, who says that the baby will arrive before Christmas! Isn’t that nice?”

“Robert’s not such a bad sort,” Louise said, sitting down next to Catherine and propping her chin on her shoulder. “He’s taken it all very well.”

“He’s not the father but he married her anyway,” Catherine told Enjolras conspiratorially. “Look, she says that she wore her brown day dress and yellow shawl to the church, and he brought her a bouquet of daisies and lily-of-the-valley. She says that his mother has given them a crib with seashells painted along the sides, and a little pewter bracelet.”

“Lord,” said Louise. “She played her cards well, considering.”

Enjolras soon gave up on an early night and, feeling somewhat saintlike in his patience, leaned back against the pillows and began to listen.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> salaries and general servant dynamics are stolen from stendhal. blame him for any inaccuracies. 
> 
> i have no idea how large the staff would be in a house of that size so if the number is too low, assume catherine forgot a few names.
> 
> also ty for all who have read! :)

**Author's Note:**

> 1) title is from "j'eus toujours de l'amour pour les choses ailées" by good ol' victor hugo
> 
> 2) i have to give a massive, massive thank you to [smithens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens), who cheerleaded me throughout and offered so much valuable insight 
> 
> 3) i am being purposefully handwavey about irrelevant historical details. yes i know the dates don't line up irt the berlioz reference. that's okay, we're all mainly here for enjolras swooning in a corset. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


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